Taya.

Taya’s eyes have the trembling colour of the coffee, the coffee I was holding in my hands while gliding down the river in the night of Dagenham, and thinking of her, who tries to sleep somewhere around there. They see things others can’t see, dark shadows back from insomnia, vibrations and the energy of rock turning into pictures, but they can’t see white vans, and exits from the Liverpool Street roundabout. I knew it wasn’t her elusive hopping in and out of focus, on her skinny boot-ballasted legs, but neither was the nervous way she makes a ball out of her thoughts in sudden explosions of brightness, hums I should say, while leaving all the rest to her mime repertoire. I thought I got it at last, I thought it was because you never know – and maybe she doesn’t know either – never you can tell what is next, a moonwalk? or a frown, but maybe I was wrong. Perhaps I still don’t know how comes I can’t resist. I try to lose myself in the crowd, avoid her in every way, because I know how I can end up, but sooner or later, without even realizing it, I find myself talking to her, and it’s like running, well, trying to run, while floating in the air. As the landscape slowly fades away, you can glide for hours, doodling trajectories, with no fear of getting lost: she’s always ready to rescue and shove you in a new, different place. But now it’s time to empty my cup and walk back inside, on the bridge: the sea is getting closer.

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Una risposta a Taya.

  1. Gina ha detto:

    Devo essere gelosa?

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